


Ménage à Trois

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-21
Updated: 2006-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's just say, it's not what you think ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ménage à Trois

The club was dark, a pileus cloud of smoke hovering just below the lights, hazing what little glow they gave. A current of excitement wound its way low along the floor, slinking under the tables, threading through the hum of voices. It crawled up onto the stage, thrusting into Curt, a vibration at the base of his skull, a burning in his hands that lit his guitar on fire, every note it played feeding back into the current, lossless, Maxwell's Demon made real.

Curt had never felt like this, so perfect, so on, and everything he'd been trying to say with his music, everything that he could see so clearly in his head, but never quite make real with his voice, was laid out on the stage, bright and clear in the dark and smoke.

A couple of people were up from their seats, throwing themselves at the stage, tearing off clothing and offering it like tribute. He kept playing, laughing, not even disturbed that one of them was his next-door neighbor, Pete, who was too big, too Brylcreemed, too Old Spiced, and too grabby whenever Curt had to ride with him in the elevator. Though when the extra-large pair of whitie-tighties came sailing at him, he ducked away.

He was riding the high, and it was in him, in them, a fucking orgy of music and need, and Curt loved it all, even the too hairy Pete, and he couldn't believe how good it was, nothing could touch him now, not even the little pickles that people were throwing, though they were making the stage kind of slippery, and there was something vaguely frightening about the sheer mass of tiny, pimply phallic symbols that were accumulating at his feet, especially when they started to buzz at him, and the audience was buzzing too, like hundreds of snakes with adenoid problems, and Curt wished they'd stop, because it was weird, and it was covering up the music, making him lose his place in it, making him-

Wake up. Curt groaned, realizing that their alarm was blaring. Fuck. He hated mornings, hated getting up, hated that it had all been a dream… except for the Pete and the pickles part, because that had just been weird.

There was a slap, and the alarm went silent.

"Thanks."

"No problem." Arthur's voice was still slurred with sleep, and the arm that he laid over Curt's waist was warm and heavy with it.

Curt knew they had to get up, but he just laid there, exhausted. The dreams had seemed to go on all night, his mind always working, and he felt like he hadn't slept at all. He wanted to just go back to sleep, the bed a siren calling to him from a familiar, welcoming shore… but Arthur needed to get to work, and he always felt bad lying in bed when Arthur couldn't. Using all of his will, and more strength than he'd known he'd possessed, he moved, managing to get one arm several inches up in the air before it fell into the bed's gravity well again. "Too heavy. I can't get up."

Arthur rolled over, spooning against him, nesting his face into the crook between Curt's neck and shoulder. His, "It's Saturday, we don't have to get up," was a warm tickle against fine hairs, and Curt moaned with delight. He could sleep in after all.

"There is a God." He felt happy; sleep was the best thing ever, better even than the dream, and Curt hugged his pillow with dozy joy as he burrowed down into the bed, the feel of the sheets a fading caress as he drifted away.

But the hand on his waist moved, skimming under the cloth of his shorts, stroking lightly along his skin, slow and sensual.

Curt said, "Nnnn," and rolled over, away from the distraction that was keeping him from warm and wonderful sleep.

But now the hand was resting on his ass, trailing down the cleft, rubbing the cotton cloth into it, a teasing friction.

Curt flailed one arm behind him, trying to slap the hand away. The only cotton he was interested in was the sheets, the beautiful sheets. He clutched them tightly, wanting to be close, crooning, "I love you," softly to them.

Arthur laughed, slipped the hand back under the shorts, fingers splaying out over one cheek. "I love you, too. And seeing as we're already up…" he shifted his hips, pushing his morning erection against Curt's leg.

Curt rolled over on his stomach, using one arm to push Arthur away, using the other to fold the pillow up over his head. "Are you crazy? We get to sleep in and you want to have sex?"

Another chuff of laughter came. "The romance is gone. You're giving that pillow more attention than you give me."

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean for you to find out this way, but I'm having an affair with the bed. Sometimes we let the pillow get in on the action. We've gotten very close, and I think it's serious."

Arthur was still laughing as he got up. He leaned over and slapped Curt's ass before he went into the bathroom, calling back over his shoulder, "Maybe we can all get together later on. If the bed doesn't mind sharing with me, that is."

Curt could hear him whistling even over the sound of the shower, and he had just enough awareness left to mutter, "Fucking morning person," before he finally, blessedly, went back to sleep.

::::::::::

Curt ground his cock against the sheets, trying to get some friction, but Arthur's hands were on his hips, pulling them back into his thrusts, and Curt could only groan out his frustration and pleasure.

Arthur was nearly breathless as he fucked Curt hard, but he managed to pant out, "You're not fooling around on me with the bed again, are you?"

Curt tried to get a hand under him, to touch himself, but Arthur pushed him down, trapping the hand shy of its target. Curt pushed back onto the cock in him, forward onto the sheets, but he didn't have enough room, and he was so close, but not close enough. "Fuck it, move. If I am cheating with the bed, it's because you're driving me to it."

A hard thrust, almost all the way out and then back again, the strength of it forcing Curt's hips forward into the mattress, the cotton burning across sensitive skin, and Curt whimpered with how good it felt.

Arthur's teeth were on Curt's neck even as his hips were slapping forward faster and harder. He managed to get out, "Driving you _into_ it," before he came, anything else he might have said giving way into a wordless shout.

At the time, Curt was too busy coming himself to complain about the pun, and later he was feeling too sated to care. Post-coital and happy, he pulled Arthur's back closer to his chest, snuggling deeper into the mattress, and whispered, "I love you," to both of them before he drifted off to sleep.

And if he dreamed, he didn't remember it, but when he woke up, he really wanted a pickle.

/story  


Oh, yeah, a certain green vegetable's use was vaguely inspired by the movie _Real Genius_. :P


End file.
